


Vigil

by Hopetohell



Category: Mission: Impossible (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Angsty Schmoop, Bathroom Sex, Fingering, Other, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Reader-Insert, Schmoop, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-15
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:01:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25277368
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: One last encounter before his final mission.
Relationships: August Walker/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 30





	1. Vigil

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter one was intended as a stand-alone story, but I just can’t leave well enough alone.

Just think about him, already a memory even as he’s touching you because this is the last time, it has to be, this is a mission he’s not coming back from one way or another. 

“No.” His hand is harsh in your hair, pulling your head up to look him in the fucking eye. “When you’re with me, _you’re with me_.” He crowds you, can’t help it, this airport bathroom far too small for even him alone. With both of you together in this tiny stall he practically has to be inside you before you’re even undressed, just to fit. He leans in and the stall door creaks under the strain. 

You want so badly to leave a bruise, to mark him with a memory of you. But you can’t, so instead you beg it of him, tilting your head to bare your throat. “ _Ask_ ,” he hisses, and his mouth is so close you can feel the heat of him on your neck, can almost taste the coffee on his breath because this was just supposed to be a little breakfast before an early flight, a little goodbye-for-now, until he’d dropped the truth on you. The weight of that truth crowds you even more in this tiny space, leaving barely enough air for you to beg. 

“Please.” 

And so he does, mouth branding bruises onto your neck, working the skin between his sharp teeth, his hands everywhere trying to get you undressed but there’s just not enough room. So he pinches the fabric of your trousers in his hands and tears. You’d be outraged, but he’s pushing two fingers into your mouth and normally you’d make a crack about it—dammit, August, _spit isn’t lube_ — but you’re weak for it, for the way he pulls at the corner of your mouth, for the shiny thread of spit that connects you to him for one brief moment. 

He’s reaching into your ruined trousers, pushing past your underwear that’s already pooling wet, and then inside you. The angle is terrible but he’s biting at your neck again and when he breathes it’s a benediction, as if what he says could ever be anything but sin. 

And you’re grasping at his arm, his tendons shifting and bunching as he works his fingers inside you. He has to be hard, has to be hurting, but he won’t let you touch him. 

Then his hand is gone and you hiss at the loss but he’s opening the front of his pants and just like the time before and the time before and the time before you can’t help but gasp at the sight of him, thick and already leaking for you. 

Your hands are on his shoulders then, clinging as he lifts you and maybe you’ll leave a mark on him after all with how hard your fingertips are digging into his flesh. You must hit a nerve for the way he snaps his hips up, thrusting into empty air, but he’s tearing your trousers even further as he pulls your legs around himself, hitching your ass up higher and this time he sinks home. 

With each thrust the stall door creaks, with each thrust you hiss and keen until he has to kiss you to keep you quiet, swallowing your sounds down, absorbing them into himself. He steals your breath and your tears, and you don’t know when you started to cry but the tears trickle to your lips and he groans at the taste of them. 

And then he’s whispering something in your ear, something that makes you shiver and shake around him. When he follows you over the edge moments later, the rush of heat brands you so deep inside that you pray you’ll never be rid of it. But already he’s lowering you onto your shaking legs, tucking himself away and slipping effortlessly back into that carefully curated appearance, curls brushed back, tie straight. 

You stumble out of the stall together. He presses his jacket into your hands, to cover the gape of your ruined trousers. If his fingers catch against yours for a moment, neither of you say anything. There’s nothing left to say. 

When he leaves without even looking back, you pull the jacket tight around yourself. And then. In one of the pockets you find—

Oh. _Oh my god_.


	2. Hope is Not a Strategy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What’s in the box?

It’s not a ring. It’s a ring _box_ , sure, but when you’re home and can finally stop sobbing long enough to see straight you open the box and it’s 

empty. 

You don’t even know what to do with the feeling that wells up inside you at that. All you can do is hurl the box at the wall with a scream, and when the sun begins to set you’re still there, still looking at the empty box on the floor. That and a crumpled jacket are all you have left of him. 

You pull the sleeves down over your hands. 

Night falls. 

You jolt awake on the floor, neck stiff, face crusted with salt. You open the box, turn it over in your hands. Close it again. Put it back in his jacket pocket, hang the jacket in your closet. Close the door on that part of yourself. 

Days pass, then weeks. It never gets better but it gets easier, somehow. Now and again you find yourself remembering him, remembering business trips, missions where he’d sometimes disappear during downtime and you’d never asked because he always returned, holding some little memento for you. Chocolate, postcards, puzzle boxes. Puzzle boxes—your brain stutters, skips. 

You get the box. Open it. 

Oh. Oh my _god_. It isn’t empty. You remove the drive from its hidden compartment, tripping over yourself in your haste to get to your laptop. Your thumb on the biometric scanner opens the drive, brings up file after file. Documents, coordinates, bank numbers, it’s all there. Everything he only had the time to hint at in between sips of stale coffee when he’d told you he wasn’t coming back this time. An insurance policy, then. But you don’t understand, because what good is insurance if he’s dead? 

Oh that stupid, stubborn _asshole_. It wasn’t for him, was it. It was _your_ fingerprint that unlocked the drive. 

You take the drive out, put it back in the box, put it in the jacket and close the door, try to shut it all away again but how can you? Even now, he’s trying to keep you safe against the fallout of whatever terrible thing he’s gone and done. _Idiot_ , you think. _I would’ve come with you. Hell or high water._

Spring comes. It’s raining again, it’s been raining for days and you’re just about to go clear the leaves from the gutters again when you see a shadow on the porch. Grabbing your teeball bat from where it leans against the side table, you take a deep breath and fling the door open. 

And. 

He looks terrible, too thin, half his face covered in tight, shiny scars—are those _burns_?—and for a moment all you can do is stare at one another. His hand twitches, once, toward you before dropping to his side. 

And then. 

“You _asshole_! You left. You were dead, I _grieved_ for you!” You’re pulling his head down by the hair, biting at his lips and you’re hurting him and he just, he just takes it. Lets you bite and scratch at him until all you can do is sob into his chest. 

He has nothing to say. But then his hand comes up to rest feather-light against your cheek. You press your face into his palm and he makes a sound like a wounded animal. 

And then. 

He kisses you, deep and wet, licking into you like he’s starving, a kiss that speaks of regret for every time he could have but didn’t, every hour since the last time he saw you, every fear as he left you behind. And he’s breathing words into you, _I’m sorry_ and _please_ and _I love_ —

You pull back, eyes wet. You open your mouth and nothing comes out. You try again. 

“Come inside,” you say, and he does.


End file.
